


Na'thek

by Heronfem



Series: Kadan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Communication, Complicated Relationships, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Drama & Romance, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hopeful Ending, Light BDSM, Love, Multi, POV Blackwall, Polyamory, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Dorian returns home to his partners during the Magesterium's summer break. Things are complicated.





	Na'thek

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Dominawritesthings, several years ago.

Blackwall does not even remotely speak Qunlat. 

Well, that's perhaps a bit of a lie, actually. He knows words, the kind that drip thoughtlessly from Bull's lips. Qunari aren't big on terms of affection, it seems, but he knows _kadan_ , knows _ataashi_ , and the way that Bull croons out fond things when he thinks he and Dorian aren't listening. _Vashedan_ gets thrown about when he's inspecting fraying rope or damaged blades in the kitchen, a fond _na'thek_ post sex at a request from either of them, the snapped _pashaara_ when Dorian's brattiness gets out of control. But Blackwall doesn't speak the language by any means. He thinks sometimes that he'd like to, just as a way for them to connect better. But Bull has difficulty separating the Qun and Qunlat some days, and he doesn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Their house is a comfortable thing, not large by any means, in a nice little wooded area. He had joked when they first built it that it wouldn't be good enough for Dorian, and Dorian, in a rare fit of solemnity had said, “So long as you are both here, it's as close to home as I'll ever be.”

He hadn't known what to say to that.

He and Dorian exist in an interesting dance of uncertainty with Bull in the center. Bull is endlessly patient as they try to fit together as companions. They'll never be intimate, or at least there's been no hint of it (aside from the time he'd shaved his beard off and Dorian had gone hilariously flushed and promptly bolted in his uncertainty) but they are learning to be friends. Compatriots. Sharers of the same home, the same man, and different loves.

It's mid summer when Dorian arrives from the Magesterium looking older and far more tired than he ever has. Neither Bull nor Blackwall mention the beginnings of stress lines on his forehead or the start of crows feet by his eyes. After a hearty dinner where Dorian eats like he hasn't seen food in months, they retire to the living room with its carved furniture and comfortable cushions. Blackwall smiles at the quiet compliments from Dorian on an end table with a dragon motif, Dorian laughs at jokes from Bull, and Blackwall indulges him with gossip from in town. Dorian is fascinated by small town life. 

Bull's bed is big enough to comfortably fit three, though the nights that Bull spends with Blackwall Dorian usually stays in his own side room when he's home for the three month break from the senate. Some nights, however, he hovers in the door and they cajole him inside. It's almost like sleeping in the over sized Inquisition tents again. Dorian tucks himself tight into the curve of Bull's arm like he's afraid he'll be pulled away in the night and Blackwall sprawls on his back, sheets kicked off. It's worth Dorian's grouchy morning Tevene curses (“ _Festus bei umo canaverum, quid somonio, terrible people the both of you, tam rudis. NO, do not touch me, kaffas.”_ ) to see the smile on Bull's face at having them both so close. He can hardly be jealous when he has Bull all the time, and Dorian gets time with them so rarely.

Their house becomes home then, the three of them working around each other in the intimate dance of people sharing space for so long. Dorian trims Blackwall's hair and pins it up into a neat, handsome bun. Blackwall fetches charcoal and helps him make kohl to his precise specifications. Bull handles breakfast while the two of them putter about the house, singing under his breath as Dorian berates Blackwall for letting Bull get pink curtains and yellow paint for the chairs, and Blackwall demands Dorian do something with his pile of books in the hallway. 

They have a home.

oOo

Blackwall finds him sitting outside on the porch. Dorian's chair is an overstuffed, sad thing made of cheap pine and imitation velvet, but he had seen it in a little shop and pretended so hard he didn't want it that Blackwall bought it and brought it home as a surprise for him. Dorian had cried, and he thinks about that as he rests his arm on the wing back.

Dorian stares blankly out into the distance, watching their little yard and the trees beyond like it's some sort of revelation. The wind is blowing softly, making the pink glass of the wind chime sing.

“It never stops, does it?” he says quietly, and Blackwall gently squeezes his shoulder. “It's going to kill me.”

“You? Not a chance,” Blackwall says gently. “You'll survive.”

Dorian looks up at him, managing a faint smile. He looks so _tired_. “What's this, belief in me? What next, declarations of love?”

“I've always believed in you,” Blackwall chides, and Dorian looks away quickly, swallowing hard. “Here now, don't let it go to your head.”

“Of course,” Dorian says thickly, and Blackwall ruffles his hair to make him squawk. “Rude!”

“Come on,” he says with a smile. “No point dwelling the first day you're here.”

He pulls Dorian up and leads him back inside, where Bull's smiling in the entryway.

oOo

Dorian spends a lot of time sleeping. Blackwall is quietly concerned and says as much as he and Bull eat lunch a week later.

“He's eating at least,” Bull says, chewing industriously. “Food is missing. I hear him get up at night sometimes. At this point I'm just glad he's out of Minrathous.”

There's a shadow on his face, and Blackwall hesitates before saying, “You don't think it's starting to be too much, do you?”

They are avoiding the idea, but it sits in the room like a nuggalope. Dorian is, regardless of what he claims, a scholar and fighter first and a politician second. Being raised for something doesn't means it's something he's suited to, and every time he comes home the weight seems heavier on his shoulders. Dorian has survived more than Blackwall likes to think about. Though he knows not to raise his voice when Dorian's backed into a corner unless he wants to deal with Dorian having a panic attack and lashing out, he doesn't like to think about what that implies. If Dorian is starting to crack under the pressure of the Magesterium, there is not a chance in the world that they could reach him before an assassin ducked in and used that weakness.

“I think he needs a break,” Bull says quietly, but he's put his fork down, his eye dark. “I'll talk to him.”

“He's to young for this,” Blackwall mutters, and Bull grins. “Oh, hush you. He's a good ten years younger than us both, and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bull stands, bending to kiss the top of his head. “I'll stay up and try and catch him to bring him to bed tonight.”

“That seems wise to me.” 

That's the first night that Blackwall goes to the little side room that's all his, listening with a smile as Bull's rumble soothes out the shakes in Dorian's voice, hears the quiet worries fall away into quiet sighs of relief, a few cries that might be tears and might be joy. He sleeps soundly, content.

oOo

Dorian gets better quietly. He spends time with Blackwall in his little wood shop, pretending he's utterly uninterested until Blackwall rolls his eyes, tosses him block of wood and tells him to try making a duck. The duck, once complete, is very lopsided, with a rather dented bill, but Dorian looks at it like it's cured some piece of his heart, and Blackwall helps him lacquer it. It winds up on the mantle, and a fat little sparrow follows, then her little chicks. Dorian never outright asks to be taught anything, and Blackwall never explicitly tells him how to do anything, simply demonstrating.

It's a full two weeks before Dorian breaks and asks for Bull's time, and Blackwall smiles when Bull kisses him good night and drags Dorian off to bed.

It worries him, more than a little. This is not usual behavior. Dorian is a possessive little shit, and knows it. The only reason he manages with Blackwall is that he knows with perfect clarity that Bull is more than enough for both of them. But for him to show such restraint in asking for what he wants from sex is odd. He considers this, drinking the heady coffee that Bull and Dorian have bullied him into liking, and watches the hallway.

Dorian emerges quite a while later with bruises running up and down his neck and lax smile on his face.

Blackwall points at the chair, and says quietly, “Sit.”

Dorian pauses, considering the kitchen like it's an escape route, and sits. His expression has gone distinctly wary, and Blackwall realizes with a jolt that he's expecting a fight. He's never seen his smile drop that fast.

Instead of speaking, he holds out his hand with his palm up. Dorian eyes it like it might be a snake, ready to bite him, and cautiously reaches out to take it. They have very different hands. Dorian's fingers are long and agile, less callused from using his staff than before, always kept pristinely hairless to suit fashion. Blackwall's palms are tall and broad, his hands leathery and weathered, haired, but as per Dorian's sniffed request once, his nails are always kept immaculate. Dorian manages a little smile when he looks at them, but it quickly fades when he looks back up.

“You don't have to answer me,” Blackwall says quietly, “You don't have to say a single word. But you've been here some time and you've barely spent time in bed with him. Did something happen while you were gone?”

Dorian stares at the table, and his hand goes tight. Blackwall waits, practicing his patience. He can see a faint shadow in the hallway- Bull, not intruding. Wise.

“There was a conversation,” he says lowly, looking at the grain of the wood. “I overheard the servants talking, when I was at the Senate. It's not a secret, my preferences. Certainly not a secret that I leave the country entirely when the Senate breaks for summer. But they were laughing, joking that when the last raids hit Qarinus I should have been there. That I'd be happier with-” his voice breaks, and Blackwall tightens his grip. Dorian clears his throat, still not looking at him. “That I'd be happier with my mouth stuffed all the time. Maybe then I wouldn't complain so loudly.”

Dorian has a death grip on his hand, and Blackwall can feel him shaking.

“It's nothing. I've heard far worse.” He manages an obviously fake smile. “Magister Lucerus suggested I was sleeping my way into the Senate's good graces and Mae punched him for me. That was nice.”

“Dorian,” Blackwall says flatly. “You can be upset.”

Dorian's lips tremble, and he covers his eyes with his free hand. Bull steps out of the shadows, and Dorian jerks when one broad hand touches his back.

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull breathes, his eye pained, and Dorian lowers his head to the table as he finally breaks.

oOo

They trade off nights after that, and Bull lavishes attention on Dorian when it becomes clear that Dorian needs reminding how he's loved. The bedroom starts bleeding back out into the rest of the house in the way it does when they're both home and happy. Blackwall grins when he comes home one day from the market to find Dorian sitting on a pillow, his arms bound behind him and a gag in his mouth. He looks positively murderous.

“Got in trouble, did you?” He teases, and Dorian snorts, jerking his head when Blackwall fakes reaching for his hair. “Touchy, touchy. Mouthed off again, didn't you?”

“Oh yes, he did,” Bull says, walking into the room. Dorian huffs and looks away, tipping his nose in the air. It would be rude except for how he's trying to hide a smile. “He's being quite the brat today.”

Blackwall chuckles, kissing Bull's cheek. “I can't say I'm surprised. You knew what you were getting into, my love. Oh, they finally got some decent spices at the market.”

“Mmm.” Bull takes the bag from him, inhaling deep and letting out a contented sigh. “Well, if _someone_ wants to behave, I'll make curry for dinner.”

Dorian's head whips around, eyes wide.

“And if not, he can have hen. Plain.”

Dorian's eyes go even wider, and he whines softly behind the gag. Blackwall chuckles, taking the bag back to let Bull deal with a newly polite Dorian.

Dorian's positively angelic for the rest of the day and far more polite than usual. Blackwall chuckles when Dorian curls up on Bull's lap after dinner, shoving his head under his chin. He leans against the doorway of the living room, watching them fondly. Bull seems better than he has in months, stress lines easing away as he wraps his arms around Dorian. They fill different pieces of him. Blackwall rarely fights him for dominance of any kind, and has him all year round to work with. Most of the time, that's enough. He likes obedience and the relief of submission, the strict rules and the kindness both. Dorian, however. Dorian fights. He makes Bull work for it, darting like a fish away from him until Bull traps him. He melts like butter when caught, but if Blackwall is a banked hearth, Dorian is a forest fire brought to heel. 

Dorian also likes hands at his throat and threats of violence that never come to pass. He doesn't like to talk about it.

Blackwall shares the bed with them that night, and thinks for a long time about the fall leaves in Redcliffe, and the way that Dorian had gone sickly when they walked past the tavern.

oOo

Somehow he's not shocked when Dorian drops like a stone the next day.

He hides it well. Blackwall can't, not in the slightest, but Dorian is well trained in the art of pretending his world is fine. Bull is in a hurry out the door in the morning, business in town taking him out as soon as breakfast is done. He spares a short kiss for Blackwall and a frankly blistering one for Dorian, and then he's gone. Dorian manages to keep his smile on until Bull is out the door, and then Blackwall sees the panic set in.

“I should get some work done,” Dorian says will false brightness. “I-”

“Stop,” Blackwall says quietly. “You didn't do anything wrong. You're not broken.”

Dorian freezes, then laughs with relief. There are a few tears in it. “Would you...”

“Of course.”

They have this down to a science now. They go to the bedroom, Dorian gets bundled tightly in blankets, and Blackwall brings him sugary drinks. Dorian drinks them as Blackwall sits against the headboard, spectacles perched on his nose, and opens a book of poetry.

“Poetry?” Dorian says, disgruntled, and Blackwall raises an eyebrow at him.

“Cassandra's not the only one with a reading hobby,” he says, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

He runs his fingers over the page, smiling. Dorian makes a soft, annoyed noise, and squirms in his cocoon so he has his head resting against Blackwall's shoulder.

“It's from Markham,” he says when Dorian looks like he's decidedly not saying anything. “Found it in a bundle that was being thrown out from water damage. Fixed the cover, did my best with the rest of the pages. Love poems, most of them. Some of them are translations from Antivan. Less dogs than Fereldan poems, less dramatics than Orlesian, and better than anything bloody Starkhaven's come out with.”

“Do you miss it?” Dorian asks quietly.

He sighs. “Some days. Most of the time, not much. The only thing I miss is the Vinmarks. Ferelden's covered in all these steep, sheer things. No soft rolling hills like the Marches. I hiked all over those hills and up to the top of the peaks once. And the air, always sharp with salt, even in the city.” He shakes his head sharply. “No matter.”

“Read to me?” Dorian asks, and he pauses. 

“Really?”

“I asked, didn't I?”

“Yes, but...” Blackwall shrugs. “Very well. Any preference to topic?”

Dorian hums, settling against him. “Start at the beginning.”

Blackwall nods, and opens the book again. He clears his throat as Dorian closes his eyes, and begins. “We stand here, I in the streets./ Reflecting waters ripple outwards,/ speak to me of longing, of the heart./ Have you sung all your songs,/ and left the silence to me once again?/ Know me,/ know us,/ raise your voice and bring/ the waves crashing back to the shore.”

Dorian pulled away, looking up at him. “What is _that_?”

“Poetry,” Blackwall says. 

“That's odd, is what it is.”

Blackwall rolls his eyes. “Then what's poetry to you then? Because to me it's the expression of a soul through creative manipulation of language, regardless of rhyme, rhythm, or meter.”

Dorian stares at him. “You what.”

oOo

Bull comes home to find Dorian and Blackwall still in bed arguing about the finer points of Fereldan rhyming schemes, and quietly turns his eye skyward in a bid for patience.

oOo

Four days later, he's feeling generically displeased with life. There's no particular reason for this- he's just unhappy, and his joints ache with a storm coming in. He's uncomfortable, Dorian is being the very definition of an ass, and Bull's in an abhorrently good mood. In the back of his mind he knows this is a volatile mix, but he ignores it in favor of stomping out to the wood shop to work on table legs. He does his best to ignore his thoughts, which are circling endlessly to Bull and Dorian and back again. Jealousy is starting to nibble at him, and as soon as he recognizes it, guilt wells up. He has no right to be jealous of Dorian when he's here so little. They only see him four months out of the year, and sometimes not even that if the passes are closed in winter.

He hears Bull approach and says flatly, “Not today.”

There's a pause, then, “What?”

He turns, and Bull looks at him uncertainly. He's carrying a rather lopsided bouquet of wildflowers from the meadow, and Blackwall stares at them, blinking hard to clear his suddenly misty eyes. He clears his throat, and Bull takes a tentative step forward.

“Sorry,” he says gruffly.

“Not feeling so hot, huh?” Bull takes another few steps forward, and Blackwall closes the distance, letting his head rest on Bull's chest. The flowers smell sweet and soothe some of the ache in his chest.

“Bad day,” he mutters, and Bull's free hand reaches up to stroke his back.

“What's going on in that head of yours?”

Blackwall sighs, heavy. “Guilt, mostly. Jealousy. It's not all easy.”

“I know,” Bull says quietly.

Blackwall steps back and takes the flowers, gently turning them this way and that. “It's... It's difficult, some days. We're taught that we should be enough for a person. That it'll be just two of us, lavishing all the attention and love on each other. I didn't expect this, ever. Not to share. It's unworthy to be jealous, he's not here nearly as much, and I know you miss him more than you let on.” Bull looks decidedly uncomfortable at that, and Blackwall levels a gaze at him. “I've heard you writing in the night, Bull. I know how many letters you don't send.”

Now he looks guilty, and Blackwall sighs heavily.

“It's not your fault or mine or Dorian's, it's just that some days I feel you should be only mine. That I shouldn't have to share.” He shakes his head, looking out the windows at the trees beyond. The aspens shiver, their leaves making the sunlight dance. “I worry we're all going to get hurt if he finds someone else when he's gone.”

Bull sits at the table, his face more somber than usual. “What would it matter if it did? He's not a possession.”

“Are you telling me that after all this time, after all the work you've put in, after we built a home and family, you'd be happy to see him walk away from it all into the arms of someone we don't know?” Blackwall asks, turning back to him and crossing his arms. Bull looks hunted, gutted. “Don't try and tell me you'd be happy if he left us. I'll never ask you to pick between us, and neither will he, but someone else might ask him to pick between them and you. Andraste's tits, don't you dare say you'd be happy with just me, I know how much you look forward to him coming home.”

He turns away, going to fetch the vase that he keeps on hand for when Bull brings him flowers. He busies himself with that for a moment, eyes stinging, and closes them when Bull says, low and pained, “I wouldn't mind. If he found someone else, when he's not here. He's a whole damn country away, I can't-”

Blackwall's hands tighten on the wooden vase as Bull's voice creaks.

“I can't expect him to just set aside everything and be happy with three damn months out of the year,” Bull finishes. 

Blackwall turns, sighing. “You don't have to lie to me, Bull,” he says quietly, and Bull looks down at the table. “I know you mind.”

“I've no right to,” Bull says quietly, and Blackwall stops in front of him, cups his face in his hands.

“The heart rarely listens to the head, Bull,” he says quietly, and Bull mimics the gesture of before, leaning into Blackwall's chest and wrapping his arms around his back to hold him there. “I am sorry to have brought this up.”

“Nah,” Bull says into his shirt. “Don't be. We've been dancing around this for a while.”

Blackwall cups the back of his head, stroking through the hair that's starting to come in from the last shave. “I am with you, as you are with me, and you are with him, as he is with you. And we both know full well that he's faithful to you as the sun to the moons. It's just that some days I feel like I'm little more than an ant looking up at you both.”

Bull's arms tighten around him, and he looks up, eye full of pain. “Why haven't you told me?”

“Because they're my issues to work through,” Blackwall says, one hand resting on Bull's shoulder and another on his horn. “Because I need to let go of my greed. Because I was sad. I don't know, Bull. But I'm happy enough, and I have you, and while I probably wouldn't be thrilled if you brought home a whole harem of nubile young men, I think I can stand one far too pretty magister. Especially when he keeps sending me those candied dates.”

Bull looks utterly betrayed. “He sends you dates? He doesn't send _me_ dates.”

“You're plenty sweet enough without them,” Blackwall says tartly, and Bull's smile is broad and genuine.

oOo

Thankfully it's Blackwall's night with Bull, and as soon as dinner's done and he's in their room he falls to his knees. They ache more than they have in years past, but he doesn't mind so much. The quick inhale that Bull gives at the sight of him is more than enough to make it worth it. His hands fall behind his back in exactly the way Bull likes, wrists loosely crossed. He closes his eyes as Bull steps up behind him, broad fingers plucking his hair free from the bun Dorian put it in that morning. It's far longer now than it was when they were Inquisition and he likes it that way.

So does Bull if how much he likes knotting his fingers in it is anything to go by.

“Look at you,” Bull purrs, and Blackwall feels that voice all the way down his spine, tension sliding from his shoulders as Bull gently tugs his hair. “You need something from me?”

“Please, sir,” Blackwall says, and Bull chuckles. It's a warm, rich sound, one that makes his toes curl.

“At least those manners of yours are still nice as ever. What would you like this evening?” His free hand slides down, holding his neck casually, like he couldn't snap it in a heart beat. Blackwall's pulse jumps at the thought, and Bull squeezes, just enough to make him shift. Blackwall deliberately leans into it, and Bull lets out a slow, breathy noise of pure, carnal _want_. “Need to be put back in your place, don't you?” The hand tightens, and Blackwall holds position until he can't help trying to pull back. His head hits against Bull's leg and the hand loosens, gently stroking the fine skin of his throat. “ _Kost, kadan._ I'll give you what you need.”

Some nights are slow, sultry, no heavy demands, just the patience and ability to sink into the depths, drowning willfully in seduction. Some nights are all demand, the push for obedience far stronger, the requirement of title rather than respect of it, and the descent brought by exacting perfection. Some nights are nothing, just a quiet kiss and then sleep rising to take them.

Tonight is the former it seems, Bull's broad hand on the back of his neck squeezing hard, reminding him his place, and the tension slides away with a single slow breath. Some days, Blackwall does this for him as well. Not often, for Blackwall loves to sink deep for him and Bull loves to take him there, but there are days when the change of pace is wonderful. He's never asked if Bull and Dorian change as well, but Dorian knows command perhaps too well to do well with Bull kneeling at his feet.

“Your mind is wandering, _kadan_ ,” Bull murmurs, and runs teasing claws up the shell of his ear to make him shiver and smile. 

“Best put your back into it then, bring me back to the present,” he says, startling a laugh out of Bull.

“Dorian's rubbing off on you. Backtalk, from _you_.” He laughs again, and Blackwall smiles, tilting his head up to see his face. “And here I thought you were being good for me this evening.”

“I'm always good,” Blackwall says, tart, and Bull actually laughs, tugging on his hair to make his eyes roll back a little in his head.

“You always are,” he says, fond. “And I'm still going to take you to task for being a brat, but somehow I think you're expecting that.”

Blackwall feels light, and grins up at him. “Do your worst.”

Bull laughs again, a look of pure delight in his eyes as he swoops down with shocking speed, hefts him up, and tosses him on the bed as if he weighed little more than a sack of flour. He climbs on after, and Blackwall sprawls, letting his hands be caught and pinned above his head so that Bull can take his fill of his mouth, slow and heady with heat. 

“My worst,” he muses, barely pulling away. “I think I want to make you scream tonight.”

Blackwall nips at his lip in a fit of childish glee, and Bull shakes his head, laughing. 

“What's gotten into you?”

Blackwall smiles up at him, his heart swollen. “I love you.”

Bull's eye goes soft for a moment, his smile turning tender. “I love you too, _kadan_.” He swatted Blackwall's thigh, making him yelp, and grinned wickedly down at him. “But you're still screaming yourself hoarse before the night is out. Dorian's going to kill us in the morning.”

“It'll be worth it,” Blackwall says, and Bull climbs off of him.

“Ropes or cuffs, take your pick of implements.”

Blackwall arched an eyebrow, climbing off the bed to go to the closet. “And here I thought you were punishing me.”

“Oh, I will.”

Blackwall shivers, grinning a little as he looks over the gear. 

This will be a good evening.

oOo

Blackwall does a thriving business in furniture repair and creation, and is rather proud of his work. It's a good, wholesome thing, and he likes the satisfaction of delivering fine things to fine people. The most recent is an intricately carved cradle for a formerly Dalish woman and her human husband, the two of them welcoming a new child to the world. The cradle has running halla decorating it, and is on a cleverly designed swing system to rock the child with a foot pedal for when they tire. He intends to make a rocking chair to match.

He walks up the steps just in time for the sound of smashing crockery and the door to slam open. He freezes, and Dorian bolts from the house like a man possessed, Fade stepping away so fast he's a blur. Good mood officially gone, he steps cautiously inside. 

One of the uglier plates is cracked all over the floor, and Bull is staring at it like it holds all the secrets to the universe.

“So,” Blackwall says slowly, looking at the plate. “What happened?”

Bull sighs with the weight of the world. “I fucked up.”

“Mmm.” Blackwall would like to say he's shocked. He'd like to. But if Dorian feels the need to run from _Bull_ , it must be bad. “What did you do, then?”

“I may have insinuated that he should fuck other people so he's not lonely.”

Blackwall closes his eyes, and prays to gods he doesn't believe in for all the patience in the world.

“Let me see if I have this correct,” he says, opening his eyes and looking at the ceiling. It's in need of dusting. “Are we talking about Dorian Pavus here? The same Dorian Pavus who has, for the past five years, been essentially celibate in a country that regularly throws orgies as part of their senate discussions? The same Dorian Pavus that had a cockcage made, had it it _inscribed with Qunlat_ , and that only has two keys, which, I may add, you have one of, and thanks to the enchantment on it, it only comes off when you also want it to come off? The Dorian Pavus who has put up with you loving another man for nearly five years? The Dorian Pavus who doesn't even flirt with people any more unless it's for political gain? Or maybe you're talking about another Dorian Pavus, one who doesn't have abandonment issues the size of fucking Thedas.”

He looks back down. Bull looks slightly terrified.

“That Dorian Pavus?” He asks, showing all his teeth.

Bull swallows, hard.

“You're angry.”

“That's one word for it.” He carefully sets the bundle he brought back from the market on the table, with the deliberate moves of a man who knows his own strength. He spent a long time on this table, he doesn't want to scratch it. “Let me be perfectly clear. You're sleeping in the shed tonight.”

“Wait just a-” 

Blackwall fixes him with a gaze that has made lesser men faint. As it is Bull shrinks.

“Clean up the damn plate, and I'll see if I can fix this mess,” he says flatly. “Damn it, Bull, I told you not to do this.”

Bull looks slightly desperate, huge hands clenching and unclenching. “I feel like I'm using him,” he says at last, and some of the anger fades. “I can't- I don't want to be that man. I don't want him to torture himself because of me. You see how he is, he's falling apart at the fucking seams, we're losing him to himself. That fire of his is being snuffed out, and it's killing us both.”

Blackwall goes cold. “What did you say to him? _Exactly_ , Bull.”

Bull sighs, rubbing a hand over his head. “I said, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if you could find someone to make you happy in Minrathous.”

Blackwall swears strong enough to blister paint, and turns on his heel. “Stay put,” he snaps over his shoulder, and sets out at a jog into the forest.

For being a pampered city boy, years with the Inquisition and his prior running around Thedas being forced to camp have made Dorian into something of a woodsman. He isn't impossible to track, but he doesn't make it easy. He doubles back on his trails, walks through streams, loops around and zig zags through fens that are fine for his lithe body and more difficult for Blackwall's broader one. Finally, he tracks him to a small clearing, where he's huddled against the rocks in a little patch of sunlight. 

“Dorian,” he says quietly, and Dorian jerks, hands wreathing in flame until he sees him.

“Come to rub it in, have you?” Dorian asks, trying for a sneer and failing miserably. He's never been a pretty crier. “You won't have to worry about me cluttering up the house any more. He's made it clear what he wants, I won't intrude further in your life. I'm taking the chair though, it was a gift and therefore mine.”

Blackwall sighs, shrugging off his gambeson and setting it on the grass to sit on. He's not getting any younger. “You don't clutter the house. You leave books everywhere, you can't clean off the vanity worth a damn, but _you_ aren't clutter. You're family.”

“Not any more, it seems,” Dorian says, and Blackwall is going to make Bull sleep on the couch for a week.

“We talked, the other day,” he says with a sigh. “He thinks he's not doing enough. That your needs aren't being met right. _He doesn't want you to leave us_. He thought you might want to be the center of a V too.”

“But I don't!” Dorian says, clearly upset. “How can he think that? What did I do? I've been faithful the whole time, I barely even look at people these days. It just about kills me to go home to a cold bed, but I don't cheat! I love him, why can't he see that he's the only one I want? I didn't mean to upset him, what did I _do_?” His voice is starting to take on a note of hysteria. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” Blackwall says gently. “You know how he thinks. He wants you to be happy, and sometimes he forgets that not everyone finds happiness the same way. I'll admit, I'm... well, I'm scared for you.”

Dorian looks at him like he's grown a second head, and Blackwall holds up his hands to placate him. “Don't look at me like that, I love you too, in my own way.” He sighs. “Dorian... you don't seem well.”

Dorian's lips press tight, and he lowers his head to his knees.

“What's going on in that head of yours?” Blackwall asks, carefully moving forward to put a hand on Dorian's knee.

“I don't want to go,” Dorian says, his voice breaking. “I don't want to go back, but I have to, and I don't want to sit there and feel jealous but I have to, and I don't want to watch as everyone swans around with their spouse and their lovers while I can't have either _but I have to_.” His shoulders hitch, clearly trying to keep his tears in check. “I can't just walk away. Solas-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “He told me once that if I wanted to make amends, I should free the slaves of all races in Thedas. I told him I wasn't sure if I could, and he said...”

“Then how sorry _are_ you,” Blackwall says softly. “I remember.” It had not been a good day.

“I have to try,” Dorian whispers. “I have to.”

“You can't try if you're dead,” Blackwall says flatly, and moves to sit against the rock so Dorian can lean into him, and break.

oOo

Bull is firmly told to sleep on the couch, and Dorian curls up in the bed beside Blackwall. He seems like little more than a small, scared child for a moment, and Blackwall pushes the curl of his hair away from his face as he shifts uncomfortably.

“It'll work out,” he says quietly. “Give it time. We'll find balance again.”

He waits until Dorian's asleep before sliding out of bed and going to the living room. Bull sits on the couch, staring blankly at the floor.

“How is he?”

“Not good,” Blackwall says flatly. “He's being torn apart by this.”

Bull buries his face in his hands, and Blackwall reminds himself to keep his breath even and slow. If they're going to fight, they're going to fight like adults.

“How do I fix this?” Bull asks the floor. “How do I keep him from all the shit that Tevinter throws at him, how do I help him be happy when he's three fucking countries and a small ocean away? We knew long distance would be shitty, but- _fuck_. I don't want to lose him, I don't want him to die. He's got nothing there, no one but Mae and that big empty house and some servants. It's his life's work, and he hates it.”

Blackwall sighs, looking down at the floor.

“You and I,” he says softly. “We've come a long way. Done a lot of things that maybe we shouldn't've, done a lot of things right and wrong, and in the end we're the things that demons tell their children to fear. We'd better get our heads together, because if we can't save one man I shudder to think what we could've done to the world.”

Bull huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his hand against his eye. “What's your suggestion?”

“He stays here.”

Bull looks up, startled. “What?”

Blackwall shrugs. “Magisters take leave of the Senate all the time for- what do they call it? Sabbatical. His party's well in line, they're doing good work, they have Magister Tilani at their head. He could afford a break and time to breathe. Work himself back up to the challenge. Think of it like leave, for soldiers. He's fighting a war with words and knives in the dark. Don't think I haven't noticed all the candles we use at night now. He doesn't like the shadows, he's afraid of what they hide. That doesn't bode well. If he takes time off, he loses a few contracts on his head, he loses some of that fear, he gains some of that calm back.”

“Do you think he'll stay?” Bull looks like he wants to be hopeful, but he's forcing his silence.

“I think we owe it to him to try.”

oOo

The fight that ensues is short.

Dorian says no, sharply, abruptly, and Blackwall thinks that his own heart hurts far too deeply to try and talk to him about it. It feels like a rejection, a sharp cut to still tender flesh, and Bull spends a great deal of time out on the porch. He stares out into the forest as if answers will walk out of it, and Blackwall wishes they would. Their home is fractured, the connection tenuous. Dorian is high strung and flighty, shifting out from under the lightest touch and jerking whenever people appear in his periphery. Blackwall attempts to carve, and everything turns out warped and ugly.

Summer is drawing to a close.

Where usually the house is a ringing palace of laughter and love, silence reigns. Dorian buries himself in work, papers and parchment flooding the table as his pen dashes out responses, letters to a wide number of his contacts. Bull starts a garden, spending hours at a time tending to the tilled soil so that it will be ready for planting in the spring. Blackwall takes to the lathe when his tools turn on him, learning a new way of expression in the still heat of the shop. There, he can settle some. The soft bump-thwack bump-thwack of the pedal he uses to turn the lathe takes him into meditation, and bowls grow from stumps. He makes bowl after bowl, from the tiniest thimble size to dishes deep enough for an entire Qunari style stew for a _kith_. The last one he sets aside, marveling at the colors for a moment before fetching a long stick and taking it to the lathe.

He works slowly, holding the spindle gouge steady to chip the wood into a long, beautiful ornamental piece. It stands about to his hip, and he makes a second bowl, mid sized, that he attaches to one end. The piece is elegant as is, and when he attaches the largest bowl to the top it's glorious. He has every right to be proud of his work, but it is not complete.

There is one Qunlat phrase book in the house. It is written by some strange man who calls himself Phillam, A Bard! and Blackwall rolls his eyes as he takes it off the shelf. It was a gag gift for Bull from Dorian, who had found it immensely hilarious to mutter snarky phrases at him in what Bull assures them is a horrendous accent. Blackwall smiles a bit as he thumbs through it. There are notations next to some of the phrases, Bull's Qunlat listed beside it to show how to write it in the original language. He listens to Bull in the kitchen and Dorian muttering to himself in the dining area as he responds to a letter. If not for the silence between the three of them, it would be an average afternoon, and his smile fades a little as his heart aches with loneliness. While he finds that he and Bull are an excellent match, feeling each other heart to heart, it is not as if there is no difficulty. 

He takes the phrase book, and carefully takes Dorian's prized Arcanum Compendium from its place of honor, spiriting it out the door before he can notice.

The work of carving returns to him slowly, his gift no longer fighting with his sorrow, and he works when he can. He carves slowly, gently, putting loving detail into every line.

He finishes it just two weeks before Dorian's scheduled departure, and sets it outside on the lawn where Dorian will see it from where he works in the dining room, and Bull will see it as he toils outside.

Dorian, curious as a little mustachioed cat, appears first. Blackwall sits on the porch, pretending to read as Dorian gently touches the bird bath. Attached to the bird bath in such a way that they look like they are swimming are three ducks, nestled together, and Dorian runs his finger over the carvings of cat tail reeds and blood lotus, so common at Lake Luthias. Tiny pink dawnstone fragments have been placed around the edge to make it sparkle, and Dorian looks to the base only to press shaking fingers to his mouth.

Bull arrives then, looking over the bird bath. He smiles at the ducks, goes soft at the dawnstone, and then looks to where Dorian has become transfixed.

On the base, in three looping strands that intersect like beautiful knots all around, read three repeating lines.

 _Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit_ runs in the smooth curves and sharp spikes of Qunlat, Bull's handwriting. 

_Necesse est enim quod volo facio consilium refert_ reads the next, all loops and rushed lines, Dorian's hasty penmanship as he dashes off a letter always signed, _with great love_.

 _It is my purpose to do what I must for those I consider important._ Blackwall's own slanted hand, brought to life in the wood, proclaiming his frank devotion.

Blackwall walks over to them and Dorian turns soundlessly, pulling him into a bone crushing hug. Bull scoops him up a moment later, and Blackwall holds them both as tight as he can while some piece of the ache in his heart eases.

oOo

“You wrote Qunlat for me,” Bull says quietly, later, while Dorian snores on his chest and Blackwall curls up against his side for the first time in nearly three weeks. “Why Qunlat?”

Blackwall traces absent patterns over his skin before reaching out to tuck some of Dorian's hair back behind his ear. “It's a part of you, still. Not a bad part.”

“Debatable.”

“No.” Blackwall sighs, settling his head better on Bull's shoulder. “Thom is still part of me. That part of me that ran forward, unafraid, ready to save the world and win the girl, the same part that wound up killing innocents- my past is not all tragedy, and neither is yours. Nor is Dorian's. He sees beauty still where I only see mud, finds worth in even the smallest scrap of paper. Horrible things have happened to all of us. They shaped us, showed us where we break, and so we grew back stronger and wiser. It does no good to ignore the past.”

Bull is silent, and Blackwall leans up to kiss his cheek. It tastes of salt.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “There are more days before us than there are behind.”

“As you wish, _kadan_ ,” Bull whispers. “ _Na'thek_.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you did enjoy this, please leave a comment! You can find me on tumblr as Heronfem as well.


End file.
